Dysphoria
by ruchel
Summary: After the murder his wife, Führer Mustang uncovers his inner demons. He's a functioning alcoholic, fueled by rage and encompassed by lust. The newly revived Homunculi spot this, and are determined to make him one of their own. Rated M for smut/lemon, language, violence/gore, dark themes. Post-Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood. No OCs.
1. Prologue

**This is the prologue! I figured I'd post it - however, I'm already well into writing the first chapter and will be updating that soon. Let me know what you think thus far.**

** -x-**

With exception of the moonlit beam of light reflected in his idle lover's eyes, the area was blanketed by darkness that only the hours between two and four in the morning could discern. A gentle rainstorm tapped against the windowsill, creating symphonious background ambience which fit in harmony with the stillness of the scene.

He proposed a deep gaze into the chocolate colored eyes of his wife of just five short years, who now lay still in his arms as a product of his drunken rage.

He raised one hand to gently push away the stray blonde hairs that had fallen into her face. With slight hesitation, he closed her eyelids - swiftly pushing away the fact that he would not even see them light up with fiery passion once more.

She was a pale shade of light gray illuminated by the moon which poured in like a stream through the window's blinds. Her skin was always akin to a furnace, but she had fallen cold.

He was still drunk, there wasn't any doubt about it. The rage had long since fled but the placement of his character and mind was still mislaid. However, in this moment, he recalled the events which lead to the homicide of his wife.

He dropped her corpse to the ground and gained his balance upright on both feet. "_You bastard. You fucking bastard!__" _ He screamed at himself in hysterics, realizing the caliber of his actions. Falling to the couch which sat behind him, directly in view of her lifeless body.

The tight purple and blue markings around her neck told the story in full. He had asphyxiated her.

He remembered the grasp he had, tight around her neck. It sent a shiver down his spine as he recalled the action which evoked her violent last gasps for air. He had consumed her last breath whole and filtered it into more rage. He recalled watching her fall to the ground as he stormed ferociously out the front door which shook the house like an earthquake with it's tangible slam.

He could only imagine the fear that must have run through her veins like shards of glass piercing every part of her body. He could only imagine the pain she must have felt in the moment of her final breath. The final breath that he, the love of her life, stole from her existence.


	2. Chapter 1: Dissociation

**Probably one of the darkest chapters I'll write, to be honest. Let me know what you think!**

**Chapter 1: Dissociation **

Roy, awakened by the late morning sun's beams shining through his eyelids from the window which sat on the wall closest to his side of the bed - the right side. The room was bright - he could tell there wasn't a cloud sitting in the sky that morning. Quite the contrary to how he was feeling which deemed itself as rather groggy.

He closed his eyes and rolled onto his back. Pressing his eyes tight, he brought the back of his hand to his forehead and laid still. He felt his head burning up, suggesting a low-grade fever. He tiredly reached over to grab his pocket planner he had sitting on his nightstand, which sat directly to his right. Riza gave it to him as a birthday gift September of last year, his 35th birthday. It felt like ages ago.

He let out a joyous slight grin, as he ran his fingertips over the golden engraving which read _Roy Mustang _in the bottom right corner, complimenting the black leather cover rather nicely. _She__'__s always had the finest taste in accessories,_ he lightly laughed to himself, finishing with smirk.

It was Sunday, April 25th.

Every Sunday morning, Riza would wake up bright and early - sometime around 5:45 in the morning, complimenting her strict and scheduled personality. (Hence why she bought him the pocket planner. He was always incredibly punctual, just not punctual _enough, _according to Riza.) He didn't enjoy waking up when it was still dark outside, he found it odd and unnecessary.

Because of this, he was used to waking up in his bed alone. It was never a bad feeling since she always was just a shout away, a short walk down the stairs.

Early on Sunday's, he'd find Riza in the kitchen, making him breakfast and a pot of coffee. Riza always joked that the smell of pancakes and eggs was the only thing that motivated him to get up in the morning. He'd always wave her off and say "Of course." When she wasn't making breakfast, one could normally find her at the kitchen table, reading the paper, pouring coffee mugs by the pot.

He wearily stretched and sat up in bed, facing the window. There weren't houses for miles. They never had to worry about any neighbors or outsiders infringing on their privacy. Living on the outskirts of Central - just close enough to be within a decent range to Central Command was just far enough to keep work away from home.

He reminisced on the days where he wasn't Fuhrer, he was far more at ease then. He wanted this position for years but when it finally came, it granted him more stress than he could've ever dreamed of. He wasn't one to back down. He believed could handle anything life threw at him - there was nobody alive that could succeed as much and do it as diligently as he had. Besides, he promised an entire country that he would make up for all the wrongdoings of the previous Fuhrer, King Bradley.

Black Hayate creeped into the bedroom where Roy sat, and jumped upon the bed - something Riza had never let him do but Roy had always let it occur when she wasn't looking. Roy is a stern man with rules equally as flexible as he is flinty - only for Hayate, however. Through his years with Hayate, he discovered the true meaning of "man's best friend."

Hayate, who was now leading into his tenth year of life, was usually just as energetic and frivolous as he was in his puppy years. Today, he was sluggish. He nudged Roy's right arm lightly and sat at his side, his black eyes glistened when the sun hit them with golden rays. Roy laid his hand on the pup's head and pet him gently, head to tail.

"Good morning, Hayate. Have you begged Riza for food yet?" Roy chortled, then exerted a slight grin. His voice was deep and harsh, a rather contradictory trait mismatching his youthful face - he looked well under his age of thirty-five. Some would call him baby faced, and not a patch of facial hair in sight. He ambled over to the wardrobe which held his clothes, neatly pressed.

You'd never catch Roy dead in garb that didn't scream class and high social regard. Scrambling throughout his intricately sorted closet, he decided on a white button down shirt, a black vest and slacks. It wasn't the most elaborate of outfits, but it would do.

He strolled over to the bathroom adjacent to their master bedroom, switched on the light and ran his fingers through his hair. His jet black - almost blue black hair - fell unkempt and loose over his dark eyes. Looking into the mirror, he examined the purple bags under his eyes. Some would call his eyes inviting, others would call them condescending. Regardless, most would agree that they were dauntingly beautiful - even those who hated him the most.

He traced his fingertips over the under-eye bags. He didn't _feel _as tired as he looked - he felt as if he had slept the entire day away. So much so, that he didn't even remember putting himself to sleep the night before. Riza must've put the blankets over him, he decided. He figured he probably fell asleep reading, or something like that.

"She's awfully quiet this morning," he murmured to Hayate who followed him into the cream-and-red themed victorian-style bathroom. At this hour - 9:30 AM- Riza would usually have been calling his name from downstairs - she usually would never let him sleep in past 8:30 because by then all the breakfast would be cold and he would've gotten far too late a start on his grueling amounts of paperwork. On a normal day, he was awake late enough anyway. "Adequate sleep" are two words that never matched together in Roy's daily vernacular.

When he didn't hear a response he shouted from the bathroom cockily, crossing his arms and leaning cross legged against the sink. "So Riza, were you going to let me sleep all day or what?" He then waited patiently for shuffling noises downstairs or one of her usual sassy remarks.

This time, however, the house fell silent. He could only hear the light breathing of Black Hayate and himself.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye?" he said, teasing with high hopes for a response. Once again, the air was still and no sound came from downstairs. _That__'__s odd, _he thought, zipping his pants and grabbing his long black leather coat out of the wardrobe before heading downstairs. Maybe she had planned a surprise for him, he guessed with a glimmer of hope that she had done so. He grabbed his ignition gloves from the top drawer of his mahogany dresser, which laid against the wall parallel to their bed.

As he descended down the steps, a foul, rancid smell overwhelmed his senses like the screeching sound of nails on a chalkboard can send shivers down to the bone. It was familiar - the scent had stained his skin like death's hold on a lifeless body back when he was in Ishval. It was the smell of flesh.

Steadily, he slowly turned a sharp right into the kitchen. Here he didn't find the source of the stench, but a scene that only the most destructive of humans could have mustered. Broken glass from bottles and drinking glasses alike coated the floor like a blanket stained with dried blood. You could distantly hear the screams of the victim putting up a fight. He could smell whiskey in the air. The chestnut cupboard was blackened with ash.

Mustang gasped to himself and shut his eyes tight and leaned against the wall behind him, pressing his palms tightly to his temples - fingers extending to his forehead. His headache worsened. He knew what he would find if he turned the corner into the living room - undoubtedly the carcass of his wife. He felt the unfamiliar soreness in his throat that one feels before they burst into an array of tears. Fuhrer Mustang was never one to cry - he had seen hell. He had a hardened plate of armor over his emotions, and he would never let emotions that let him appear weak seep through to anyone except for his Riza - his "queen".

Sunlight poured in through the window, brightening the room entirely - illuminating the body which lay face down on the hard wood floor. There were only specks of blood in this room - quite contrary to the kitchen he had just witnessed. Without hesitation, he fell to his knees in hysterics. He was furious.

_How could this be?_

_Who could__'__ve done this? _Thoughts chaotically splashed across his mind like tidal waves, his heart racing as he pounded the ground with his fists. Shaking angrily with a wide-eyed scan of her motionless body.

"Whoever did this will burn in hell!_" _He screamed with a growl in his tone.

"_I will get my vengeance!__" _He pounded his fist upon the ground as his tongue screamed his last syllable. His as shifted across the room, examining the scene. Her cold, idle body haunted him. He gritted his teeth in was then when he noticed the familiar look in her eyes. This was when he remembered.

…

"Stop it, Roy. I don't need you any more drunk than you already are. _Please_, put the bottle down." She was never one to beg, but this time she was desperate for some sort of solace. She had never seen him this drunk throughout their relationship, nor their friendship. She trusted him with all her being, but she feared the repercussions of what could be mindless, destructive acts. Let's just say, normally she had a hiding place for his ignition gloves. She never wanted to have to worry about that loss of self control. Today, she hadn't hid them.

"Haven't you learned yet, my dear? I can whatever I wish," Mustang slurred fiercely, and snapped his right hand middle finger and thumb in Riza's general direction; she jumped out of the way and in a panic, ran to grab her gun. Flames spurted about and burned the cupboard which could have been Riza's flesh if she hadn't jumped out of the way.

"Take the gloves off, Roy." She was stern and loud, her gun cocked in front of her, aiming the nozzle straight at his forehead. As a sharpshooter, this would be a simple task. But how could she ever shoot the man she had always loved so dearly? But to imagine the alchemy her own father taught Mustang himself to be the cause of her own death. His drunken state glazed over his eyes like a film.

Her eyes darted around the room in attempt to plan an escape. She didn't have it in her heart to shoot him - she couldn't. She had promised it years before when they had just met. If he had gone astray, he told her to shoot him. Simple as that. And thus, she promised she would. She never expected to have had his hand in marriage. A gun to her lover would be her last and final choice. She reminded herself that if she ever shot him, the daybreak would fall and so would she - Riza had not planned to exist without him.

The gun was still cocked in front of her. It was unlike her to have such unsteady hands when holding a pistol. After all, she'd done it for many years and killed many innocent lives. Lives much more pure than that of her beloved, who had massacred many with his alchemy. She knew he was a good person though, she wouldn't have let him become Fuhrer if he wasn't. As selfish and narcissistic as he may seem, he always had good intentions in mind to benefit the country as whole. Moving up in the ranks wasn't his _only _concern.

Furious, he pounded his fists on the granite counter which separated the two of them. He stayed still for a moment, leaning over the counter with his fists still pressed against the cold surface, as if he were contemplating his anger. He then turned around and leaned against the counter lightly. His lips turned downward at the corners. He examined the ground beneath him with eyes which were invisible under his hair - it fell loosely into his face, covering his eyes from her vision.

A light audible sigh of relief was released from Riza's lips. _Has he come to his senses? _She thought to herself, releasing the tight grip she had on the weapon. She thought she would see be seeing death in that moment. She was weary of what to do - the silence was terrifying.

"Roy, are you alright?" she began, her voice returning back to it's usual stable tone, plodding towards her husband who stood still against the counter, eyes squeezed shut.

He had a pounding headache - everything around him was spinning in violent haste. _She__'__s mocking me. Asking me if I__'__m alright, ha. I am beyond alright. _His growling thoughts splashed like raging waves in the midst of a storm. He felt his blood boiling as it flowed in his veins, cutting through every artery like a knife slicing tender meat. Anger overwhelmed his thoughts, encompassing his entire being like he had years of anger built up inside his chest. Normally a naturally calm person, he had his moments of explosive rage that only those closest to him had seen.

_I had finally hunted him down. She wouldn__'__t let me kill him - that damn bastard. _He clenched his fists, recalling the moment where Riza held the gun and could've shot him point-blank right in the side of the head. That was the last time she had ever come close to shooting him. In that moment, five years ago, she had seized him mid-kill. She used that to manipulate him into letting Envy live. _I could__'__ve ended his life instantly. I could__'__ve burned his soul right out of his body. _He clenched his teeth and fists tighter. She wouldn't be exploiting him like that again, he decided.

He shifted his eyes over to his blonde-haired wife who was walking towards him and gazed into her fear-soaked eyes. He was disgusted. He loved her for so long that he was completely blind-sided to the fact that she had been manipulating him all along. Grabbing the glass handle of whiskey, two thirds empty, he smashed it over her head and pushed her into the living room, which was less than 10 feet away from where they stood.

Blood trilled along the sides of her face, exuding from a gash that surfaced upon her skull on impact. She felt the quickly cooling blood drip from the wound onto her shirt. She felt dizzy and watched the living room around her spin - the pistol dropped from her hands and landed at his feet. Before she could make out what had happened - she fell to the ground. She opened one eye in hopes to find a way to reach the gun sitting just a few feet before her. She was weak. Her clouded vision bared the last sight she would ever see; her beloved husband towering over her, with fists clenched and the look of the devil resinating in his cold eyes.

She lay unconscious on the ground, but her eyes were open and her chest was rising with each slow breath she exhaled. _But she has to die. She has to be punished. _His mind repeated these thoughts as if it were pounding nails into a block of wood. With that, he pulled her up onto her knees with tight fists and gripped his fingers tight around her throat. In that moment he felt powerful and nothing short of a God.


	3. Chapter 2: Requiem

Chapter 2: Requiem

Five days since the incident have passed and the entire precinct had been nothing but sympathetic to the Fuhrer. The population was entirely in shock — wondering who could've done this to such a high ranking military officer. They wondered what enemies she could possibly have, being one of the most loyal people they had ever met.

Mustang was holding up just fine — his strength throughout was admired without question. Most wondered how he did it, knowing that if they had lost a loved one they would have taken time out of work to grieve. They didn't give his presence a second thought. They wished to themselves that they had the strength he had mustered to continue onwards. Even so, they knew things would never be the same without her.

Mustang scanned the sky. _I haven__'__t seen a sky like this since the day of Hughes__' __funeral. _The sun peeked behind a few clouds and the sky was pink with dusk's beginnings. So peaceful, yet so violent in his heart. _And I thought my life was going to end that day. Clueless I would be standing here once again._ He clenched his teeth to fight back oncoming tears.

He felt upon his shoulder a familiar touch. Standing loyally at his side was his dear friend, Captain Jean Havoc. His hand rested on Mustang's shoulder in solitude. Havoc tried to form whispered words of comfort but none successfully left his lips. Havoc gazed at the ground and shut his eyes as he felt tears gently leaving his ducts.

Not a sound was heard. The air — still and brisk for an April evening. Nobody spoke. Her mahogany casket lay just a few feet away from Mustang's feet, the Amestrian flag resting on it's surface.

It felt like he had been staring at her casket for hours — a constant reminder of her body which sat lifelessly inside.

The world around him fell to slow motion as he watched his wife's body lowered into the ground. He tightened his fists by his side to prevent him from bursting into incoherent sobbing. He heard no sound but the sniffling of his colleagues as they said goodbye to one of their dearest friends. He wouldn't dare look to his sides, or behind him only to face the teary eyed friends he has cherished for so long. They all thought he was holding up so well, but inside his blood was boiling and his heart sunken.

This would be the last time we would be within six feet of her, until one day he lay at her side once again.

Two hours passed since the time of interment, and Mustang blankly gazed at the epitaph written on his wife's fresh tombstone.

_Riza Mustang 1890 - 1925. _

"Behind every man is an even stronger woman, so they say." Mustang spoke quietly. "_How could you leave me like this?_" A tear lightly rolled down his cheek; he didn't bother to wipe it away, figuring there would be many more tears to follow and it would simply be no use. _A terrible day for rain. A terrible day for rain indeed._

"Excuse me, Fuhrer." A women's voice spoke from behind him, breaking his thought. Her voice was soft, low, fluid, yet confident. He wasn't able to pinpoint where he recognized it from, but he was sure he had heard it before.

_Who would think to bother me at a time like this?_ He internally scoffed. Without turning back, he acknowledged her presence.

"I was a good friend of Lieutenant General Riza's. She was the most loyal of soldiers," she spoke, inching forward to stand beside him. He didn't turn to look at her.

"Speaking of her like she's no longer here. I don't know if I'll ever get used to that." He took his cap off and brought it to his side. "And you are?" His voice was light — gentle.

"Acacia, sir."

He shifted his gaze to her. She couldn't have been much older than her teens, he figured. A young face, full cheeks, long black hair fell in loose curls to her waist. She had a short stature, and couldn't be much taller than five foot two. She was wearing a black-button up shirt, with a short black skirt and stockings. She was looking at the ground, and hair had fallen into her eyes.

He wondered how Riza had such a young friend, and how he had never heard them mentioned before. He found it odd, discerning, but passed it off without much further thought.

"I've lost my queen once again,." He looked up at the sky and fixed his gaze on the sun, which was almost completely set. "My luck has run out. Surely, I knew it would come. But certainly, not so soon." He shut his eyes for a moment, then turned to Acacia, who's eyes were, too, fixed on the sky.

"Perhaps you'll meet once again," she spoke softly, their heads lowering and his eyes meeting hers. Her pale skin and dark hair was gentle, but her eyes struck him like daggers into his heart. Almond shaped, violet eyes.

He let out a dark, airy laugh, "What? You mean _heaven_?" He put his cap back on. She didn't answer, and neither of them spoke for a few moments. "Right." He murmured.

Their gaze met once again. He scanned her body, standing just a few feet in front of him. Her childlike face and short body was accompanied with curves of a developed woman. _Who is she?_

She moved closer to him and whispered, "You know, sir, eyes are windows into the soul, capable of speaking everything that words are unable to convey. Every desire, every thought, every feeling." 

He stood still, staring at the woman who was now less than a foot away from him. He didn't move, and proceeded to look at her face. She was _captivating, _in a way he found indescribable.

"And you have the eyes of a guilty man," Her voice was sultry. He, a thirty-five year old man, felt like she had just swallowed him whole. _Guilty?_ He thought. _How could she possibly know?_

He fixed his posture and straightened out his back. _How dare she accuse me like this? _"How do you know my wife?" He spoke in a stern manner, reclaiming his position as Fuhrer, demanding respect.

"I told you, sir." She turned away from him, facing the opposite direction. It was now completely dark in the cemetery, no light other than what was exerting from the moon.

"Have I met you before?" He asked. The way she had him captivated — the way her _eyes _could have complete control over him. It was familiar, yet, he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Once or twice, quite a while ago." She turned to him and looked into his eyes once more. "But, I don't think you'll remember."

_I would have surely remembered a woman like this. Is she lying to me? No..but I recognize her. How could this be? Have I fucked her before? _He scanned her body again. _No, can__'__t be. She__'__s not a day over eighteen. _

He looked over to Riza's grave. "Well, any friend of Riza's is a friend of mine. I'm sure you know my name, but it's most definitely nice to meet you, Acacia. I do wish it was under better circumstances," He extended out his hand for her to shake, but she ignored the gesture.

She inched in closer to him, pulling herself onto him. Bringing her lips to his ear, she whispered, "Don't worry about what you've done, your secret is safe with me. In fact, I happen to like it." She kissed him lightly on his cheek, leaving a purple lipstick mark. _How on earth could she know? ..How?_

He ran his fingers over her marking on his face. He craved more. Always having been lustful— one wouldn't exactly call him the most faithful of partners, no matter how much he loved Riza. He always thirsted for something new, a new woman to claim his — even if it was just for one night. He had to leave his mark. Women would call him a charmer, a womanizer, able to get whatever and whomever he wanted. As of right now, he wanted no one other than Acacia. Her delicate body under his control — God, how he thirsted for that power. So much so that he forgot where he was and that he stood six feet above the corpse of his wife.

He didn't care. He didn't care at all — he would _surely _be getting his way.


End file.
